Isaac Asimov - Fantastic Voyage II - Destination Brain

"There's no compulsion about it. I just am and that's it. Well -" Morrison turned as if to leave.

"Wait, Al. What if I told you I could get you a new job with people who are sympathetic to your way of thinking?"

Morrison paused again. "I would say you were dreaming."

"I'm not. Al, listen to me - boy, am I glad I bumped into you - I want to introduce you to someone. Look, we're starting a new company, Genetic Mentalics. We've got lots of money behind us and big plans. The trick is to improve the human mind by means of genetic engineering. We've been improving computers every year, so why not our personal computer as well?" He tapped his forehead earnestly. "Where is he? I left him in the car when I saw you walk out of the hotel. You know, you haven't changed much in the years since I last saw you."

Morrison was untouched by that. "Does this new company want me?"

"Of course it wants you. We want to change the mind, make it more intelligent, more creative. But what is it we change in order to accomplish that? You can tell us."

"I'm afraid I haven't gotten that far."

"We don't expect offhand answers. We simply want you to work toward it. - Listen, whatever your salary is now, we'll double it. You just tell us your present figure and we'll go to the small trouble of multiplying it by two. Fair enough? And you'll be your own boss."

Morrison frowned. "This is the first time I've ever met Santa Claus in a business suit. Smooth-shaven, too. What's the gag?"

"No gag. - Where is he? - Ah, he moved the car to get it out of the line of traffic. - Look, he's my boss, Craig Levinson. We're not doing you a favor, Al. You'll be doing us a favor. Come with me."

Morrison hesitated only momentarily. It's always darkest before the dawn. When you're down, there's no direction but up. Lightning does strike sometimes. - He was suddenly full of old saws.

He let himself be led by the other, hanging back only slightly.

Norbert waved and called out, "I found him! This is the fellow I told you about. Al Morrison. He's the one we need."

A grave middle-aged face looked out from behind the steering wheel of a late-model automobile, whose color was something uncertain in the gathering darkness. The face smiled, teeth gleaming whitely, and the voice that belonged to it said, "Great!"

The trunk door lifted upward as they approached and Charlie Norbert took Morrison's suitcase. "Here, let me unload you." He swung it into the trunk and closed the door.

"Wait," said Morrison, rather surprised.

"Don't worry, Al. If you miss this train, there's another. If you want, we'll hire a limousine to take you home - eventually. Get in."

"Into the car?"

"Certainly." The back door had swung open invitingly.

"Where will we be going?"

"Look," said Norbert, his voice dropping half an octave and getting much softer. "Let's not waste time. Get in."

Morrison felt something hard against his side and twisted in order to see what it was.

He felt it - whatever it was - push against him. Norbert's voice was a whisper now. "Let's be very quiet, Al. Let's not make a fuss."

Morrison got into the car and was suddenly very frightened. He knew that Norbert was holding a gun.

Morrison pushed himself across the back seat, wondering if he could reach the other door and get out again. Even if Norbert had a gun, would he want to use it in a hotel parking lot with a hundred people within thirty meters? After all, even if the gun were silenced, his sudden collapse would surely draw attention.

The possibility vanished quickly, however, when a third man got into the other door, a large one who grunted as he bent himself into the car and who looked at Morrison, if not malevolently, then certainly with an expression that was free of any trace of friendship.

Morrison found himself squeezed between a man on either side and was incapable of stirring. The car moved forward smoothly and picked up speed once it moved onto the highway.

Morrison said in a choked voice, "What is this all about? Where are we going? What are you going to do?"

Norbert's voice, without the falsetto and without the synthetic bonhomie, was grim. "No need to worry, Dr. Morrison. We have no intention of harming you. We just want you with us."

"I was with you back there." (He tried to point "back there," but the man on his right leaned against him and he could not free his right hand to do so.)

"But we want you to be with us - somewhere else."

Morrison tried to sound threatening. "See here, you're kidnapping me. That's a serious offense."

"No, Dr. Morrison, let's not call it kidnapping. Let's call it being friendly in a rather forcible way."

"Whatever you call it, this is illegal. Or are you the police? If so, identify yourself and tell me what I've done and what this is all about."

"We are not charging you with anything. I told you. We just want you with us. I'd advise you to keep quiet, Doctor, and remain calm. It will be better for you."

"I can't remain calm if I don't know what's going on."

"Force yourself," said Norbert unsympathetically.

Morrison couldn't think of anything further to say that would help matters and, without actually becoming calm, fell silent.

The stars were out now. The night was as clear as the day had been. The automobile moved through traffic consisting of a thousand cars, each of which had someone behind the wheel who was going quietly about his or her ordinary business without any awareness that in a nearby car a crime was being committed.

Morrison's heart continued working overtime and his lips trembled. He couldn't help but be nervous. They said they meant him no harm, but how far could he trust them? So far, everything that this man on his left had told him had been a lie.

He tried to be calm, but to what organ of his body did he speak in order to achieve calmness? He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe deeply and slowly - and to think rationally. He was a scientist. He had to think rationally.

These must be Rodano's colleagues. They were taking him to headquarters, where the pressure to force him to undertake the mission would be increased. However, they couldn't succeed. He was an American and that meant he could be treated only according to certain established rules, certain legal procedures, and certain customary modes of action. There could be nothing arbitrary, nothing improvised.

He drew another deep breath. He merely had to keep saying no and they would be helpless.

There was a small lurch and his eyes flew open.

The car had turned off the highway onto a narrow dirt road.

Automatically, he said, "Where are we going?"

There was no answer.

The automobile bumped along for a considerable distance and then turned into a field, obscure and dark. In the glow of the car's headlights, Morrison made out a helicopter, its rotors turning slowly and its motor making only the slightest purr.

It was one of the new kind, its sound waves suppressed, its smooth surface absorbing, rather than reflecting, radar beams. Its popular name was the "hushicopter."

Morrison's heart sank. If they were using a hushicopter, which were extremely expensive and quite rare, then he was being treated as no ordinary prey. He was being treated as a big fish.

But I'm not a big fish, he thought desperately.

The automobile stopped and the headlights went out. There was still the faint purr and a few dim violet lights, hardly visible, marked the spot where the hushicopter sat.

The large man at Morrison's right threw open the car door and, again with a grunt, lowered his head and forced his way out. His large hand reached in for Morrison.

Morrison tried to shrink away. "Where are you taking me?"

The large man seized his upper arm. "Come out. Enough talking."